


Away From Your Embrace

by pure_as_the_driven_snow



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cause I Just Think Theyre Neat, F/F, Gelus referred to with they/them, Masturbation (for later), Misa 'Comphet Trauma Complex' Amane, Misa Gets A (Lot of) Hug(s), Musical/Anime blend, Other, Praisekink (for later), Rem Lives; Light And L Do Not, Rem has two forms and Misa Will Bang Both (or die trying. Maybe.), Rem lives AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure_as_the_driven_snow/pseuds/pure_as_the_driven_snow
Summary: Misa Amane finds a notebook, and the goddess attached to it.Or,Misa struggles with comphet, the trauma of being an orphan and an idol, and the ordeals of being in love with the idea of love itself. Rem helps.
Relationships: Amane Misa/Rem
Comments: 14
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly musical based (designs, Misa's characterization, plot/ending) with splashes of the anime (Rem's anime/manga appearance will come into play/ be referenced). It's 2020. We are reclaiming Misa Amane for the WLW's and the monsterfuckers and the WLW monsterfuckers. It's a Venn diagram. 
> 
> Also, I think it is very cute that Rem keeps hugging Misa with her cloak. I think it's very gay that Misa's songs never specifies a gender and that Rem has so many lesbian anthems. Anyway.

The first time Rem does it is when they meet.

It is dark. The night is colder, under the light of the moon. The world is bleached of nuance and depth, reduced to blue, to silver, to starlight. Misa runs because there is a  _ monster _ at her heels, a monster she cultivates with every salacious photo, and every love song. Men who discard their sense and long for the creature held in frosted glass beyond their screens, who  _ has _ no lover, only the public at large to contend with. 

(How easy, then, to declare oneself the winner.  _ I love you the most. I am your one, your only, your destined. Therefore, you are mine. _

This is the culture of an idol, an actress. It’s a part of the job.)

Misa’s stalker is a man nearly twice her age, stuck alone in his cramped apartment with nothing but his daily office job to toil with, her singles to keep him company on the train rides, her magazines to frame like a family that he no longer has. Misa does not recognize his face, not particularly, because he is nothing special, but he yearns to make her remember. Till death do they part. 

She’s not sure when she feels safe enough to stop. Long after hers become the only footsteps around, and she has the echo of a body crumbling to asphalt blooming just beneath the sound of blood rushing in her ears, perhaps. 

In the empty intersection of lonely backstreets, Misa sees the notebook. Held under a spotlight of a flickering streetlamp that dies when Misa walks beneath it, picking it up.  _ Death Note _ , it declares in bold character. 

There is a hush. The world distorts just slightly, as if the curtain between Misa and the world beyond. When Misa looks up, a woman in white looks back; cruel and otherworldly, terrifying and beautiful. 

She takes Misa’s breath away. And after Misa wakes up with chills pouring down her spine, after Misa learns the truth of  _ Kira _ , of shinigami, of her role in this, Rem does not treat her unkindly. Even as she spoke with distaste of love, mortal foolishness, Rem never told  _ Misa _ she was stupid. She offered Misa everything and more, and only told her in steady, frosted tones what the price such endeavors cost. 

And then, when it was done, Rem had lifted the edge of her every billowing cloak, and draped it around Misa as a comfort. 

There is no warmth, Misa notices, with Rem’s arm around her shoulders and the cloak curling around her body with unnatural surety. Rem takes no breaths, has no heartbeat, no blood, and she  _ glides _ as much as she keeps pace with Misa. 

They approach the body of Misa’s stalker, and Gelus’s final victim. Misa tries not to tremble, and fails; Rem draws closer, a tangible weight against Misa’s side. A long fingered hand, tipped with talons, drapes across her racing heart, an intimate gesture. Misa takes a great, gasping breath, chest rising into Rem’s frigid touch; when she turns her eyes upward, not yet swimming in the crimson gaze of a death god’s sight, Rem’s expression holds no answers. 

“Breathe out,” Rem instructs. Misa’s exhale is wavering, choppy. The cold air shreds her throat. “He can no longer hurt you.” 

“Gelus did that,” Misa says. She holds the Death Note against her stomach, and the other hand tangles in the ghost-thin wisps of Rem’s cloak. She pulls it tighter over her shoulders, and Rem acquiesces, pressing closer. “They killed him. For  _ me _ .” 

“Yes,” says Rem. “And then they, too, died for you.”

Because shinigami can only take, and never give. To save a life is to trade their own in exchange. It is such a simple, beautiful act of sacrifice that Misa feels it to her core, and makes her feel strange. She’d tried to give the Death Note back, and Rem had refused it. It was only right, she’d said, for Gelus’s notebook to fall to the human realm, for it to be given to the human they had perished for.

(But Misa doesn’t know if she wants the mantle of Gelus against her, either. Hadn’t Gelus just been another stalker, when stripped down of context? Had things worked out differently--would it have been Gelus chasing her down, hunting her like a starving hound?)

“A fool,” Rem says of the shinigami. There is no change in her tone, no respect or awe or even reproach. Just a simple statement of fact; Gelus was a fool who died for a human who thinks of trading half her lifetime away to find someone else. “What will you do, Misa Amane?”

Misa calls the police. She tells the truth, in as many words as possible. They cannot see Rem, but they notice as Misa shudders when Rem pulls herself and her cloak away, drifting on the peripheral edge. They offer sympathy, support; one of them unfolds a shock blanket. In comparison to the cloak of a shinigami, it should be a comfort, but it scratches and rubs her arms raw. She keeps it on out of politeness, and talks when she’s spoken to, because Misa knows how to play a crowd, if nothing else. And if the police notice Misa looking just to the side of their faces, unwilling to meet their eyes, they will pity her, and say nothing more; they will not press, so they will not know that Misa looks to the shinigami sauntering around them. 

They will not see Rem delicately lift the ends of her cloak as she steps over the stalker’s cold, rigor frozen body, as if such a touch would sully her. The curl of disdain on her features is as arresting and inescapable an orbit as Kira’s justice. 

Through it all, Rem offers her no council, no comfort. She stands, a vanguard, and watches. Letting Misa carve her own path, come what may.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time is at a photo shoot.

Misa sits in a chair, her first set done, sipping carefully at water. Her head pounds and her eyes cannot stop aching. They aren’t dry, but the world is awash in red, like a drop of blood has fallen into Misa’s eye, and no matter how much she blinks, it stays, stains. Names and numbers wreathe the heads of her coworkers and the production staff like long forgotten laurels, flickering. 

It is an overload of information, and the headache in between Misa’s temples is proof enough of it. She feels sick. She feels  _ powerful _ . 

Rem has told her that shinigami take lives at a whim, adding soul and lifetimes into their cloaks.  _ Like cattle _ , Misa had said, voice shaking. 

_ No _ , Rem had answered blithely,  _ Do you humans not adhere to standards? You pick the fattest, the most healthy. We have no such reservations. We have no reason to kill; we simply do. _

That had stuck with Misa, but not in a cruel way. It almost sounds better, really. Death comes for all, but the shinigami who lurk above or below do not hold judgement, or care for the ones that they take. There’s nothing anyone can do, so there’s really no blame to be had, when it comes to shinigami. 

No, Misa thinks. That kind of judgment comes from Kira and Kira alone.  _ That’s why...that’s why I have to give them everything _ , Misa thinks to herself. It’s only fair to give Kira everything of herself, now that she has something  _ to _ give. They gave her justice when no one else on this rotten planet would. 

The urge to leap out of her seat, to run from this stupid office, this pointless charade of normalcy, is so great that her legs bounce from anxiety. Her headache worsens; her teeth clench. Misa goes tight tight tight, a spring coiled and ready to  _ burst _ apart, when Rem comes to her.

(Rem is never far. The consequence of being ‘possessed’ by a shinigami, Rem has told her. They are bound by something far greater a power than even Kira; Rem will write Misa’s name down, in time, and Misa will die and be folded into the cloak much like all of Rem’s other victims. There was no joy on Rem’s face when she told Misa this, but neither was there sorrow.

But there was softness. Gentleness, too, in the way Rem had told Misa these truths, treating Misa with as much care as she did respect. It was strange.)

The cool drape of Rem’s cloak should instill the deepest fear--after all, this is where Rem intends to take Misa on some far off day, without any warning--but the stiff rise of Misa’s shoulders softens almost instantly. The low, pulsing pain dulls when Rem’s hand covers Misa’s forehead, careful not to ruffle her bangs; no windows mean there’s nothing that can explain Rem's touch as a breeze to the others. 

“Breathe,” Rem instructs her quietly, like she did before. When Misa obeys, Rem asks, “Are you in great pain?”

“No,” Misa whispers. Rem, so close, will hear it, but with the way she leans towards Rem, a dip of her chin letting her hair artfully fall to disguise her moving mouth ensures that no one sees Misa-Misa muttering to herself. “Not really. It’s just...there. Was it always painful for you? When you first opened your eyes?”

“Hm,” Rem hums. It’s pretty, Rem’s voice. As pretty as the shimmer of lifetimes stolen into thread. Misa selfishly tugs more of it across her body anyway, and when she peeks at Rem’s face out of the corner of her eyes, she sees a gentle quirk of ash-pale lips. “It has never hurt me. Though, I suppose, it is different; I have had many years to adjust to the sight.”

“Or maybe pain for you is normal,” Misa muses. Rem hums again, as if the thought has never quite occurred to her. Maybe it hasn’t, Misa realizes, and as if in answer, Rem’s hand starts to pet over her hair. 

“Perhaps it is,” Rem says quietly. “I have never given it thought.” 

“Misa’s smart like that,” Misa says quietly, victoriously, her lips curled. 

“That was never in doubt.” 

Misa warms under the praise. When her break is over, she rises from her chair. Her headache is gone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Rem does it a lot, Misa comes to realize. 

It’s second nature, almost. Misa doesn’t think Rem’s even aware of it, how she’ll approach Misa and drape her cloak around her in comfort, or--and this is where Misa  _ must _ be imagining it--projection, a statement. There are no other shinigami around that Misa can see (but, well, that doesn’t mean anything, does it?) and she hasn’t yet seen a human with just a name yet. So...it’s not like Rem’s protecting her from anything when she sways close, wraps an arm around her shoulders or waist. 

It has to be a statement, made only for Rem’s sake. Something Rem does only because she  _ wants _ to, not just when Misa feels the pressure of finding Kira, of being  _ useful _ to them, of the struggle of what she should do with her Death Note. Rem only says to use it ‘for herself’, and stays close, following Misa, but never interfering. 

Misa loves it, just a little. That Rem is the one person that has no expectations of her, that finds no fault in Misa--or if she finds fault, she keeps it to herself. Maybe Rem’s overall disgusted pity for all things is what lets her be so objective. Misa hoards that to herself, though, enough that she puts on stupid television for Rem to be enchanted by while she thinks of what to do with her Death Note. 

Sometimes it’s just game shows. Watching Rem’s usually stoic face grimace and twist with each over exaggerated reaction makes her giggle into her hand. Cooking shows are even better. Rem seems  _ revolted _ by the concept of food, going so far as to curl up, pulling ends of her cloak up to shield her sight. Like this, she seems as human as Misa is, even though Misa knows the form she takes isn’t necessarily her real one. 

Horror specials are better, though. Misa acts a little, usually, because it’s hard to feel  _ true _ terror when she’s seen so much worse. Rem can probably scare away the worst of the supernatural critters--vampires, ghouls, if they so exist--so Misa squeaking is all for show. Rem always puffs up a little, like an angry bird, lifting her cloak to shield Misa with an all too-serious frown. She never catches on that Misa is doing it all for the cold graze of that pretty fabric, or she tolerates Misa enough to play along. It could be either.

But some of the imported American movies turn her stomach. Homes broken into by strangers in offputting masks, going on a rampage, these are the movies that Misa regrets deeply, ones that she nearly turns off by the first act alone. But Rem pulls her close when a genuine whine works out of her mouth. Rem cards her thin fingers into Misa’s hair and turns her head against her shoulder, letting Misa curl up into her lap. Wraps Misa up so securely in her cloak that the film is only muffled sound and shifting light. 

Rem has no heartbeat, no breaths to take, so she is all silence and tension. Misa chances a look, and her heart stutters. 

Rem’s  _ baring her teeth _ at the screen, lips curled back over white, sharp fangs. The gold of her iris has swallowed the whole of her eyes, save for the slit pupils that narrow in warning. There’s a  _ quiet _ , low hiss that passes between her teeth, and Misa can’t look anymore, turns her face back into Rem’s shoulder. 

When the movie ends, Rem doesn’t let her go just yet. Misa doesn’t make any move to extract herself, at least until Rem says, “You are not asleep.”

“No,” Misa says. Her voice is a croak. She makes to move against Rem’s grip, and slowly, the cocoon of her cloak falls away. She isn’t crying, no, because there’s a horrible, angry numb sensation crawling up towards her heart. It’s just like back then; when Mama and Papa died and took all of Misa’s light with them. 

Rem’s hand comes against her flushed cheek. Misa gasps, quietly. 

“I will kill them,” Rem murmurs. Her eyes are normal, again, but Misa remembers the vicious creature that had nearly lunged for actors through a screen, for Misa’s sake, and the  _ thrill _ it sends through her turns the stinging heat in her chest soft. “Let me kill them.” 

“I c-can’t,” Misa stammers. Her mouth is dry, and Rem is so  _ close _ , hovering around her like a not-living shield. “They’re not criminals.”

“They frightened you.”

Misa can’t help it. She laughs a little, and raises her hand to cover Rem’s.  _ They frightened you _ , spit like a curse. Like Rem views this as a crime in itself. And the wonderfully thrilling thing is, if Misa allowed it, she has no doubt that Rem would make good on her vow. Rem would kill every last actor involved, might even go for the producer, the director. Maybe Misa could convince her to slaughter the writers, too. 

“It’s only pretend,” Misa says. “I put it on so you’d hold me. I always do.” 

“Misa,” Rem murmurs. She looks stunned, and Misa is proud of herself. She’s always surprising Rem like this, throwing this endlessly old shinigami for a loop. Misa is never boring, and she’ll have Rem remembering this far longer than after the day Rem writes down her name in the Death Note. 

But shoes come in pairs, and Misa is unprepared for Rem’s brow to furrow, and her face to turn serious, for her to move her hand to slide from under Misa’s, to cup her head just behind her ear. Isn’t prepared for how scorching Rem’s gaze can become, how the unfeeling and objective goddess of death looks at Misa as if Misa is the sun, the stars, the moon. 

“I will hold you,” says Rem, “when you desire it so. You do not need to watch a hideous...film...to gain such from me. Do you understand?”

There is no judgement. No scorn. Misa doesn’t even think it’s  _ concern _ that Rem speaks with, not an ounce of pity, like Misa is a stupid child who doesn’t understand the world. Misa lost her innocence in blood and gunsmoke, in trials dragged out over months, in strangled courts with uncaring jurors and bored, corrupt judges. Rem speaks with conviction, and facts, and the kind of brutal honesty that sets broken bones and flays deception. The kind of truth that Misa doesn’t think she deserves after thinking of Rem as an attack dog, however briefly. 

“I understand,” Misa says quietly. She feels small and yet, so very large. Maybe this is how birds feel, with their hollow, breakable bones as they soar up high. 

Rem nods. Then, adds, “I will never, ever understand you humans and your foolish whims.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Misa doesn’t want Rem to  _ regret _ that offering, of course, but the idea of it is too addicting to not abuse a  _ tiny _ bit. 

Misa only has to offer a lilt of her voice-- “ _ Re~m,” _ \--and Rem is there, wrapping Misa up without another word. They talk, idly, of the day, and watch the news. Sometimes Misa will eat little meals or snacks and Rem will try very hard not to look like she’s going to run away. Misa never offers her food, because that might  _ actually _ traumatize poor Rem.

All that said. Rem holding her is enough of an anchor to begin to walk in Kira’s footsteps, so she begins to write names in her Death Note.

Misa knows that Rem is taking them, because the cloak ripples every forty seconds.  _ Power _ whispers in Misa’s veins; she is surrounded by the dead, embraced by a god, and serving yet another higher power. How had she  _ ever _ thought that singing, that modeling, was close to this? She feels like  _ laughing _ as her eyes let her bypass the limitations set by the media, reckless and wild. It’s all criminals, all scum, and while she adheres to Kira’s example, she can’t help being biased. 

Burglars, home invaders, those who breached the sanctity, the security of a family home--they die  _ messy _ , ugly, lonely and pathetic deaths. Misa makes them suffer like Kira would never, because Kira is better than she, and Misa is only human. She wonders if Kira would be disappointed in her choice, and the thought alone nearly drives her to a tearful hysteria, but it is Rem’s solid grip and low sigh that reels her back.

She trembles, leaning back. She’s panting, slick with sweat, her eyes tender from the strain of her withheld tears. Her Death Note has over four pages filled, and that should be  _ more _ than enough; but Misa knows it won’t be. Phantom blood rests on her tongue, tart and sweet like apples, and this--this. 

This is why the shinigami need human lives as nourishment. Rem doesn’t seem different, but surely she can feel the energy too; the revitalization in Misa’s veins must run as deep as it does in Rem. How many years has Misa given to Rem; not just half of her own, but with these pages. A hundred years? Two hundred?

(To whom is this sacrifice, something whispers against her ear. Is this tribute to Kira? Is this sacrament for Rem?)

“Was it good work?” Misa asks. She half hopes Rem chides her, asks more of her. She’s nearly hungry for the chance to pick up the pen again, surrender herself to the bloodthirst of a god. Above all, though, she craves validation. 

And Rem, her steady, constant Rem, gives her a gift. 

“It is very good work, Misa,” Rem says against her ear. “You have done splendidly.”

Misa  _ melts _ , tears rolling free. She cries with a smile and feels Rem petting over her face, her heaving shoulders. Trying to soothe her? Rewarding her? Misa isn’t sure, and now, she doesn’t care. The words resonate from her head to crawl syrup sweet into her heart. 

“You would make an entirely new breed of shinigami,” Rem continues. “You are incredible.”

It feels so  _ good _ . She shakes in Rem’s cloak, grabs the two halves and pulls them flush against her overheated skin. She bundles her fists beneath her chin, giggling, sighing. 

She wonders what  _ Kira’s _ praise would do to her, if Rem’s praise alone has made her senseless with delight. 

“You’re not just saying all that,  _ right? _ ” Misa sits up a little, turns her head. She doesn’t relinquish possession of Rem’s cloak, though, and so maybe that means Rem’s brought a little closer than usual. If Rem were the sort of being to take breaths, they’d be ghosting over Misa’s nose, her cheeks. 

Rem blinks at her, slowly. “No,” she says, low, as the news begins to report the spoils of Misa’s work. “I do not ‘just say’ things.” 

“Right,” Misa breathes. Then, she lets go of Rem’s cloak, and pulls away. Her heart is racing faster and faster, and while the high of Rem’s genuine approval is still buoying her steps, Misa feels frazzled. Unsteady. Shaky, wanting, in a way she can’t fully comprehend. She shakes out her hands, and spins on her feet. 

  
“Misa,” she begins, “has an  _ idea _ .” 


	5. Chapter 5

The song comes to her fast, the lyrics flowing onto the page. Misa knows what radios want, what the public wants, and so she crafts her secret wish into a love song, weaving her words into lines and between them. She’ll trust that Kira will know what she wants, will know where to go. She doesn’t put the Death Note away, using it as the muse of highest inspiration as she writes with feverish intent. She is Eurydice, calling out for Orpheus, and Kira will not leave her alone in the Underworld. 

It’s only when Rem reminds her of the importance of sleep for the photo shoot the next day that Misa pulls herself back. 

It will take more time, more work--they’re  _ nearly _ perfect, and Misa closes her song book with the pen marking the place. She doesn't feel like a god, or an otherworldly being; she feels human and  _ alive _ , a livewire of blood and flesh. 

She puts on one of those animal documentaries Rem likes--the kind where they show the lions tearing open the gazelle, the kind that shows life in all of its ugly beauty--and takes a shower. 

The bathroom is the only place where she is guaranteed privacy. Rem would leave her alone at Misa’s word, of course, but Misa never wants to give the order; Rem’s silences are different from what waited for Misa when she returned to her apartment alone, empty, wanted only for the masks she can wear. She doesn’t know if she can give Rem up now, at least until she finds Kira. 

She means for a quick shower. She really does. 

But the energy in her has to leave. Misa closes her eyes in the spray, and in some forgotten corner of her soul, something speaks up--says,  _ this is unholy _ , says  _ you’ve killed so many people, just now _ \--and Misa ignores it like a bad memory. Because she reaches her hand down and touches herself, fast and automatic. 

Misa is not a patient girl, and sees no point in savoring something she sees every day. But she runs the words of Rem’s praise over and over, imagines what Kira will sound like, imagines Kira touching her instead, stroking her open. Imagines Kira stretched over her, the spray running off of his body, his lips at Misa’s ear. 

_ Good work _ , Kira will say,  _ Such a good job, Misa _ . 

He will do as Misa does, now, touching her inside. He’d be so gentle, but demanding. He will be kind enough to give her pleasure first, but of course a man above God will want the rest of the night to himself; and Misa will give it, gladly, of course she will, she’s so good. 

(Frustration. Small embers.  _ Good job _ , Kira will say, and she’ll love it, won’t she? She should. She must.)

His hand will cup her fully, he’ll shelter her between his arms, his cold hands drawing the fever-hot blaze of her sin away. His hair will hang against her shoulders, white and violet silk twining against Misa’s. Kira’s body will be light, his frame slight and careful, and his fingers long, graceful, twisting inside of her and a thumb against her clit, gentle-gentle-gentle. 

_ Good girl, _ Kira whispers.  _ Good girl, good girl, Misa. _

Her cloak will have no  _ choice _ but to plaster itself against Misa’s body, white turning as translucent as a ghost, as a death-god; it will hide nothing of Misa and touch her everywhere, and Rem will remind her that she is not a human lover with a drag of ice cold fangs against Misa’s neck--

( _ this, yes, this this this _ ,)

_ You are incredible, _ Rem will say. And when she makes Misa cum, she’ll whisper,  _ You will be the last life I ever take. _

(because misa is irreplaceable, no one can compare, no one  _ will _ compare, and so why bother trying to seek something after such perfection? 

rem may be the one who kills her, but she will spend the rest of her brief eternity with misa stitched into her cloak, until they both crumble into ash, into dust, into forever.)

And it isn’t until the water goes lukewarm, near cold, that Misa realizes what she’s done.

\--

“Rem,” Misa asks quietly, her hair dried, “Could you leave for the night? I just need a night to be alone, for a little while.”


	6. Chapter 6

Rem returns in the morning and walks Misa to her shoot. If she notices how quiet Misa is, how she can barely look at Rem, she does not remark on it. Maybe she’ll chalk it up to one of Misa’s ‘human whims’. 

(Does it hurt her? 

Does it hurt her like it hurts Misa? To feel a sudden, unexplainable rift here, made of Misa’s guilty secret. Does Rem even feel it like Misa feels it?)

Misa does not  _ usually _ wave off Rem’s attempts to hold her in public--after all, who can see?--but the moment she feels the snowsoft graze of Rem’s cloak against her bare arms, Misa can only see the cloak soaked with water, covering her, Rem’s lips against the back of her neck and she’s  _ wet _ just that fast. She leaps away from Rem, and hears a shocked murmur of people. 

“What’s wrong, Misa?” 

Misa looks back, because she’s never  _ rejected _ Rem like this, and she feels her face crumple. She usually loves surprising Rem, but she aches to see Rem standing still, in place with her arm still outstretched like usual. 

It’s not her fault that Misa is broken, that her horrible brain had to conjure things like  _ that _ . It’s not Rem’s fault at all.

“I-I’m sorry,” Misa says, looking at Rem. Then, to the others, “I’m fine, really! Sorry. Just a--just a chill.”

She forces herself to return to normal, and manages it, but Rem never comes to her again that day. Even when the day is done and they return home together, Rem remains quiet and does not reach out like usual. Misa’s skin itches, hungry for the contact it’s become accustomed to, but there’s an ugly, guilty weight too. And when Misa feels like this, off balance and frightened, Rem usually holds her. It’s a cycle that she’s already exhausted of. 

Misa eats dinner at her table, alone. Rem waits in the living room, without the television as white noise. It feels all too similar to the days before Rem, before Kira; dull and colorless and empty. It scrapes over the open sore of Misa’s heart. 

Rem can no doubt maintain her silence for a thousand years, but Misa doesn’t even have a fraction of that anymore, so she breaks it. 

“I’m sorry,” Misa blurts, stomping into the living room. Her hands wring as she sees Rem standing still by a window. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Rem asks her in return.

“Earlier. Today. When I--”  _ thought of you like some pervert, _ “--I ran away, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” Rem says. Her voice is flat, but Misa knows that note. It hides hurt, anger, and disappointment. Misa is not sure which of these emotions sting worse, when they come from Rem. “No. Do not apologize, Misa.” 

“I hurt you,” Misa fires in return.  _ Please let me make it better. I’ll be good! I’ll be good, so please, don’t-- _

“It is my fault,” Rem says. “I overstepped. It will not happen again.” 

_ No, no no no _ , Misa thinks wildly. She feels like an addict in withdrawal, and it’s only half of a day. She can’t imagine being alone again, can’t withstand the weight of her Death Note alone; doesn’t Rem understand that? Is this a punishment for thinking of Rem like Kira? Can Rem read her thoughts, her intentions, like she can read Misa’s name, her lifespan? 

“I will only hold you when you ask,” Rem continues, and the panic in Misa’s chest starts to settle. 

“You’ll still hold me?” 

It comes out quiet, vulnerable in a way Misa isn’t prepared to censor. She trembles in place and forces herself to look Rem head on when the shinigami meets her eyes. Rem’s cold expression cracks, finally, as if Misa’s question pierces her through. She watches Rem’s jaw flex, then relax. 

“If that is what you want from me,” Rem finally says. And slowly, Misa would dare to say  _ tentatively _ , she opens her arms and cloak in invitation. Wary, like Misa will run away from her like before.

Misa is a selfish girl above all else, so she moves into the embrace that Rem rarely offers on her own. She latches on, sighing in open relief when Rem’s cloak enfolds her, like cool shade after a day spent baking beneath the sun. Her head drops heavy against Rem’s still chest, and she realizes that for all the times Rem has held her, she’s never actually  _ held _ Rem back. Rem seems tiny in her arms, almost impossibly so, like Misa could wrap her arms around twice and still have room to spare. 

And it shouldn’t be possible to want to  _ protect _ a shinigami. Rem cannot be touched by mortal weapons. She cannot be exorcised or banished. But she  _ can _ be hurt, and Misa knows this now, by Misa’s own hand. She can even be killed by Misa. 

_ Never _ , she vows.  _ Never, ever. _

  
(But she breaks this promise, and doesn’t even notice it. Caught up in the brilliance of her song, the beauty of her mission-- _ Find me, Kira, find me, I will give you everything-- _ she doesn’t see Rem reaching out to embrace her.)


	7. Chapter 7

The meeting with Kira--with  _ Light Yagami _ \--is everything she has dreamed of. 

Except...not at all. 

There’s the exhilaration of meeting the boy who avenged her family, and Misa offers herself as she never has. Her stakes her entire career and reputation and  _ life _ with her deal with Light. As an idol, she’s not meant to have any sort of romantic relationship; she is to appear available while she still looks young and innocent and marketable. 

She needs to show her audience that there is no rival for their affections, and act as if every yen spent in her name sways her affections toward them, and that they’ll be  _ the one _ , that very special person that Misa will give herself to in time. A boyfriend jeopardizes all of that. Not to mention how she has cleaved her life in half, how she suffers minor migraines if she isn’t careful with how she casts her eyes, how she puts herself at risk of detective L’s wrath with her mission as The Second Kira. 

And Light Yagami, her soulmate, doesn’t seem to...really grasp that. 

She won’t begrudge him (much)! He may be Kira, above God, but he’s still raised as a young man. He has no idea of Misa’s life, of her pressures. And if he has no care for her, or no interest in her affections beyond how she can help him be of use, if his ‘love’ only goes so far then she was prepared for this. She will die for the ideal world Kira creates with her, for her, for everyone.

(Rem begs her not to move forward. She warns,  _ there is no turning back _ . And there is a heartbeat where Misa  _ does _ listen, and imagines leaving, but--

But this is  _ Kira _ . Misa’s life is nothing in comparison to what she can leave behind. A place where young girls will never lose what she has, will never fear for themselves in the dark, chased by stalkers for their beauty, for their body.)

It still hurts when he walks away from her without another word. How easily she can see his manipulations when she and Rem have returned home.  _ ‘He’s stopping us from being together _ ,’ Light had said. But did that make the detective  _ evil? _ The police have failed Misa, yes, but they’ve helped others, haven’t they? 

She trembles in the living room, shell shocked and wrung dry of tears. Her heart feels numb. She can’t feel her fingers. 

“Misa,” Rem calls. 

“Are you angry?” Misa whispers. Her mouth moves, her words peel free, but Misa is unaware of both. She has such a packed schedule tomorrow; she needs to bathe, to eat, to sleep, but her legs won’t move. “Are you angry at me?”

She can feel Rem lingering just behind her. Hesitating. Is she ashamed of Misa? Disappointed? She has no  _ right _ , Misa thinks in a furious haze. So what if the detective’s only sin was getting in the way of Kira’s justice. It’s good he’s dead, then. That’s what she tells herself, and it’s easier to  _ tell _ herself to feel angry than it is to think about why. 

“Hold me,” Misa demands, unfairly. 

She wants to be held, to be treasured. She hadn’t thought Kira would  _ fall over _ himself in gratitude, no, never, she is not nearly so selfish, but...a thank you. A pat on the fucking head. Anything to latch onto, not just this cold dismissal. As if Misa were dirt on his shoes, to be kicked off before entering the house of God. 

And the easiest way to get that is...through Rem. Shame makes her sick to her stomach when Rem’s arms slide around her, easily. Her cloak wraps around Misa like a purring cat’s tail, tickling her bare legs. Her heart races at Rem’s careful embrace, fear and longing braided so neatly together that Misa could make a noose of them.

“I am not angry at you,” Rem finally says. Her silence had been one of thought, then. “My ire rests with Light Yagami.” 

“Don’t,” Misa pleads, weary. Her knees knock and she begins to sag in Rem’s grip; they move together, Rem letting her sink to her knees without releasing her. Her greedy fingers grip into the material of Rem’s clothing, clinging desperately. “Don’t, don’t, don’t...”

“I do not like the way he spoke to you,” Rem says quietly, fiercely. Her beautiful hands curl up from Misa’s waist, petting over skin and cloth, until they cup Misa’s cheeks. Like a puppet, Misa’s head rolls back; she exposes her throat to a shinigami, and that tangle of thought and emotion in her body bleeds out. 

The pad of Rem’s thumb rests against the corner of her mouth. Without Misa’s consent, her lips part open, breath stuttering. Her eyes feel heavy and her body aflame, the only relief being Rem’s cold cloak swirling around her. 

“I despise how he treated your...feelings,” Rem whispers. It sounds like the last word was forced out of her, alien and strange. Shinigami do not feel, after all. It’s dangerous for them. 

( “He can’t help,” Misa had said of the crass, frightening specter hanging around Light. Ryuk. “If a shinigami helps to extend a human’s life, they die.” 

Such a precious secret Rem had shared with her. Such a precious, fragile secret that she’d given Kira without a second thought.)

“You should be angry with me,” Misa mumbles mournfully. The more she thinks about the day, the meeting, the more she feels angry at  _ herself _ . That secret had been spoken in a quiet honor of Gelus. Rem did not mourn her kin in a traditionally human way, but there was something to be said about carrying the wishes and desires of the fallen, in hope to keep the memory of them alive. 

Gelus had fallen in love with Misa, had given her everything of themself. And Misa had told that secret like it was a joke. 

A  _ joke _ . 

( “That’s just Rem,” Misa had waved her shinigami off, “She’s just overprotective of me.” )

‘Just Rem’. As if Misa hasn’t--

Hasn’t-- _ Hasn’t--! _

“Yet, I am not,” Rem cuts through her thoughts with gentle, brutal efficiency. “Any information I give you, it is yours to share. Your life is your own. Your--desires, your own.” Misa imagines the brief, distasteful twist of her lips.

“‘My desires’,” Misa echoes, and the world draws to pin-drop silence. Like all the air leaves, like a breath is being taken, held. Her hands untangle from Rem’s waist, and she reaches up over starchy bandages and impossible to describe fabrics, beneath Rem’s cloak. Her hands hang off of Rem’s broad shoulders. 

Misa trembles. She doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t mean to be caught again, in the gravity of her own terrible, awful, selfish brain. 

(Her body is  _ hot _ , warm from scalp to sole. Her pulse is in her ears, her breast, further down. She doesn’t even notice the ache of her knees on the hardwood, the slight straight of craning her head so far back.)

“Rem is so careful about Misa’s desires,” she murmurs. Rem’s hair hangs around them like a curtain, half translucent, painted gold by the crack of sunshine through the window. “But what about Rem?” 

Rem’s eyes widen. She’s so close, looming over Misa so  _ perfectly _ . 

“What does  _ Rem _ desire?”

Rem’s pupils dilate, just slightly. Such a  _ human _ reaction. Misa breathes fast and quick enough for the both of them, as if she could live bright and burning enough for two, halved lifespan or not.  _ You take me, remake me-- _

“My desire,” Rem begins, her voice low, raked raw by something Misa can’t identify, “is just to see you happy, Misa. It is all I want. Light Yagami will not make you happy.” 

And Rem draws back. She does not release Misa from her cloak, but there’s a chill seeping in that has nothing to do with her spiritual presence, and everything to do with her words. Misa allows herself to be embraced, cheek cushioned against Rem’s chest, and tries very, very hard not to cry.


End file.
